Still, Mariel had let her sister fashion one of their mother’s silk dresses into a lovely silver gown trimmed in Francine’s best lace, and as a mantle over her hair, she was using the exquisite blue sari Trystan had given her. She couldn’t have been more elegantly attired.
Trystan stood beside her in the formal blue silk frock coat and breeches of a gentleman. He had calves well-shaped for stockings, but she preferred his legs bare, Mariel thought mischievously, admiring her husband as he shot her a look warning her to curb her thoughts lest he embarrass himself in front of God and man. She concentrated on the lace-trimmed cravat Francine had given him as a wedding gift. He wore it proudly over his gold waistcoat.
He took Mariel’s hand on his arm and led her to the altar as if he did this every day.
They exchanged the vows of her church and kneeled for a proper blessing. It seemed perfect that a descendant of Trystan’s people should be the priest who joined them in her world.
Behind them, women wept. The newly christened Marie-Jeanne began to whimper. Children squirmed restlessly.
Father Gaston raised them to their feet again while announcing, “I pronounce you man and wife. You may now kiss the bride.”
Mariel had never thought she could be so happy as when her golden god’s lips claimed her in a kiss for all her world to see. She’d always thought of herself as a bit of a rebel. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted children, or how much she’d wanted Trystan to publicly declare her as the only woman in his life.
But she didn’t have even a moment to celebrate and savor being the bride of a golden god.
The church’s heavy, ornate doors slammed open, and the stomp of soldier’s boots echoed upon the old marble at the entrance.
“There’s the thief! Seize him!” a dangerously familiar voice shouted.
Thirty-two
Spreading his massive arms, Trystan swept Mariel, the priest, and Francine past the altar and into the sacristy, with the force of his will more than his strength. They retreated to the sound of screams and shouts from the outraged citizens of Pouchay in the pews.
“Bar the door,” Trystan commanded, before turning on his heel and storming off to control the pandemonium outside the small vestment room.
While Francine cuddled her crying daughter in the closet of musty wool and starched linen, Father Gaston lifted the heavy bolt barring the door into the church and slammed it home.
Unwilling to idle in a closet, Mariel waited for her eyes to adjust, then fought her way past the robes to the exterior door to the cemetery. The rectory could be reached by a small path from this door, but she wasn’t interested in the priest’s house. She simply needed to be outside.
“Mariel!” Francine whispered. “What are you doing?”
“Helping Trystan. If there’s a lock for this door, use it when I leave.” She was certain the soldiers had no interest in her sister or the priest, but it was best to keep them safe until the rioting was over.
She was less certain about who the soldiers did pursue. She had recognized the voice as the man called Murdoch who had told them they would never retrieve the chalice. She did not fully understand why he and Trystan were at odds, but she understood Murdoch was dangerous.
And for whatever reason, the baroness and her family were in peril because of the chalice that Mariel had stolen.
She breathed a sigh of relief when she discovered no soldiers in the cemetery. Perhaps Murdoch did not realize churches—even very small ones—often had more than one entrance. Or else he was so confident in his abilities that he did not think anyone could escape him.
Outside the high, mossy wall, shouts of wrath rang out as the crowd from the church spilled into the street. Feelings against the king ran high in Brittany, which had historically been a region independent from France. Small villages like Pouchay were so ignored by the distant court that their inhabitants resented all foreign authority. And Murdoch was very foreign.
Heart in throat, Mariel hesitated at the cemetery gate. Hiding behind the entrance pillar, she searched the scene beyond the bars for any sign of Trystan. It did not take long to identify his golden height above the crowd, engaged in swordplay with his fellow Aelynner. She swallowed a cry of fear as sharp silver slashed, circled, and clashed at lightning speed.
All around them, soldiers and villagers fought. The soldiers were better armed, but they were mercenaries who did not speak Breton, and they were on unfamiliar ground. The villagers had them surrounded, shouting commands to each other the soldiers could not interpret, wielding rocks and hoes and any other weapon they could scavenge from nearby houses and gardens.
Neighbors bearing more arms rushed out to join the wedding party. Daniel from the jewelry store emerged carrying the rusty dagger he used to protect his inventory. Children raced down alleys to gather reinforcements, and even as Mariel watched, fishermen rushed up the street from the harbor swinging oars and wielding anchor pins.
She wept at the mayhem, but the king could not send mercenaries to a rebellious, impoverished village without expecting a fight. Her goal was to rescue her relatives and see them to safety, and hope order could be restored.
Although Nick was shorter than most of the adults in this melee, Mariel easily spotted him. He’d stolen a sword and was brandishing it valiantly from the recessed doorway of the rectory. Praying the baroness and her husband had sensibly retreated to the interior of that sturdy stone structure, Mariel fled down the cemetery path to the back door of the priest’s home. She had spent many nights slipping unseen through town and had long since learned all the less-traveled paths.
Celeste had already made her way to the rectory’s back door by the time Mariel opened it. “Thank goodness,” the lady cried. “You are safe!”
Mariel hugged her shorter cousin in relief. “And you! I am so sorry we have brought all this down on you.”
De Berrier stepped forward with sword drawn, his once autocratic sneer reduced to anxiety for his wife and ward. “It is not all your fault. I sent a message to the king with my advice that the country could not sustain itself unless he taxed the church and nobility. I had hoped my gift would ease the sting. But the messenger continued on without the chalice.”
“And I am the one who ordered my servant to take back the chalice without telling my husband’s messenger to return also, so the letter went to Versailles without the softening of a bribe,” the baroness explained. “The court is in such turmoil these days that anyone who does not support the king’s policies is seen as his enemy.”
The chevalier threw a glance at the front door. “Fortunately, I am always prepared for any event. Our funds are invested throughout Europe, and my cousin has papers placing my land in a trust. I simply did not foresee affairs disintegrating so rapidly.”
“Trystan’s enemy is outside,” Mariel explained. “He is the one most likely responsible for this travesty of justice, not your very wise advice to the king. We must get you out of here. I will grab Nick, but the two of you must run ahead and not wait on us.”
The baroness wore the billowing skirts and hoops of an aristocrat, but there was no time for her to change. Hand on sword hilt, de Berrier listened gravely.
Relieved, Mariel continued, “Go through the cemetery to the back gate. There is an alley there. Turn right and head for the harbor. We will be with you directly.”
She didn’t linger to see if they obeyed her orders. Racing past the chevalier, she slid back the locks on the rectory door, cracked it open, and grabbed Nick by the back of his coat. Yanking him inside, she slammed the bolts again.
Nick looked more than relieved. “Monsieur Trystan is surrounded. I cannot reach him.”
“Follow your guardians to the ship. You will have to help row the dinghy, but I don’t think the soldiers can follow. It will take time for them to commandeer fishing boats.”
He looked uncertain, and Mariel hugged him. “Trystan is special. He will join you shortly. Don’t ask him to come back to rescue yo
u, please. It will give me failure of the heart.”
The boy nodded reluctantly and raced out the back to follow his new parents. Mariel brushed away a tear and turned to a window. She would weep over the loss of her newly acquired family another time, once she knew they were safe. For now, she had to let Trystan know he was needed elsewhere.
Did Murdoch have any of Trystan’s powers to understand other languages? He apparently knew court French, but what about rural Breton, with a dash of dolphin thrown in? If Trystan did not understand, she would try something else, but the bond between them was strong. She’d even understood Murdoch when he’d spoken Aelynn and French. Perhaps…
Easing open the casement window and standing on a stool so she could throw her voice above the crowd, Mariel began to sing in a mixture of sea language and Breton. “They are safe, to the sea, to the sea, through the gates of death, my love, I will meet you there.”
Visible above the crowd, Trystan’s head jerked at the first notes, but his concentration remained on his enemy. Murdoch was a formidable opponent, and the two inhumanly swift men were too enrapt in their private combat to regard their surroundings. Already, their clothes were in tatters, and blood spilled from nicks on hands and shoulders.
Frantically, she sang louder, but a rattle of wine barrels tumbling down the cobbled street from the inn up the hill drowned any further attempt to communicate.
But with the arrival of the first barrel, Trystan proved he’d heard her. Employing the nimbleness of one of his goats, he leaped upon the oak staves, guiding the barrel in a daring form of locomotion to bear down on Murdoch with both rapier and sword.
But he was heading downhill, toward the main harbor, aiming for Murdoch and the phalanx of soldiers behind him. A raft of loose barrels ricocheted off stones and walls along the street, forcing soldiers and mob to dodge and leap. Mariel frantically repeated her sea-song refrain. In a minute, he would be past the church and the cemetery wall—
She gaped in astonishment as her strangely gifted husband leaped from his barrel to the top of the wall seemingly with springs on his feet. The barrel continued without him, parting the soldiers who dived to either side of the narrow street to escape the cask’s gathering momentum. Mariel almost lost sight of Trystan when the staves smashed into a corner house, flooding the street with last year’s wine and the scent of grape. Even Murdoch—who had rushed to follow Trystan—had to duck and fall back into a doorway to avoid the tidal wave inundating the street as barrel after barrel smashed into the corner.
Catching sight of golden hair disappearing over the cemetery wall, Mariel raced to the back of the rectory and joined Trystan on the pathway.
Not slowing down, he grabbed her hair, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Lead on,” he shouted, apparently jubilant at his success.
Rolling her eyes at this indication of his male thrill for fighting, Mariel raced down the maze of alleys she knew by heart. Trystan could run faster without her, but her knowledge would bring them safely to her private harbor.
Reaching the rocky sea path, she could hear the yells as the mob grew and spread through the village. Below the cliff, she could see Nick, loaded down with boxes, rushing for the dinghy while the baroness flung her high-heeled shoes into the sand and grabbed portmanteaus hidden among the rocks.
The chevalier guarded his small family from the rear, sword in hand. He was the first to spot Trystan and Mariel scrambling over the cliff and down the path. Throwing them a salute from a distance, he grabbed the rest of their luggage and raced to follow Nick to the small boat.
“With all those bags, the dinghy’s not big enough for more than the three of them,” Mariel said worriedly, scanning the horizon to see the ship beyond the breakers. “I trust you can swim against the tide.”
“We’ll discover if I have as much of your talent as you have of mine,” Trystan said with a triumphant laugh. “You are the most brilliant of wives. I do not even know what language that was you used, but the song was beautiful.”
“Breton and dolphin,” she called back to him, but the wind may have swept away the words. There wasn’t time to explain.
Nick and the chevalier struggled to keep the dinghy moving forward against the powerful current, but weighed down as the vessel was, Mariel feared it was a losing battle. Glancing down the beach toward the village’s normal harbor access, she saw that some of the soldiers had fought their way through to the harbor path. She assumed Murdoch must be one of them.
“Can Murdoch sail?” she asked worriedly, discarding her shoes as they reached the beach, then ripping at the ties of her lovely wedding gown.
“Can fish swim?” Trystan asked dryly, taking his knife to her laces and splitting them so her bodice fell open, then quickly divesting himself of coat and shoes.
Of course Murdoch could sail. Glancing desperately at the small boat fighting the waves, Mariel dropped her gown and petticoats. “Go on. I can easily catch up with you. You must signal your ship to come closer.”
She knew the incoming tide would make it more difficult for The Sword of Destiny to leave, but she had weapons Murdoch would not expect.
If she was very, very careful, no one else would suspect either. She still needed to live in the village when all was said and done.
Trystan studied her worriedly. “It goes against all I am to leave your side.”
This was the parting they had both dreaded. Once he had her family safely on his ship, he would sail away, and she must stay behind. They both knew the transitory nature of life. Mariel tried not to cry as she memorized every line of Trystan’s frown, the way gold and brown played in his eyes, the way his desire and fear replicated inside her. She caressed his jaw, and his muscles clenched.
“I would not be parted from you if there were any choice, my love, but you must trust me now as I trusted you earlier.” When he still looked harsh, she speared him with a glare. “Trust me as you would Lissandra.”
Face hardening, he grabbed her waist and held her close for a kiss that burned straight through her middle. “More than Lissandra,” he growled. Setting her back on the sand, he grimly studied her expression. “That is to make certain you will wait for me.”
Holding fingers to her bruised lips, she smiled at his arrogance. “That ought to do it. We have a wedding night to share. Hurry, and come back safely.”
She tried not to let tears blur her eyes as Trystan raced out past the breakers and dived in. She knew far better than he that they would have not have another wedding night soon. He had to sail the baroness and her family safely to England, and she must remain behind.
May he swim like a fish, she prayed as Trystan stroked out to his ship.
An instant later, she also dove into the gray waves, but instead of bobbing back to the surface, she dived deeper and swam toward the point where the porpoises and dolphins played.
***
Trystan knew he wouldn’t see Mariel once she plunged beneath the waves, but he tried anyway. With a few strong strokes he was past the struggling dinghy and could turn over to watch as Mariel slid out of sight. He didn’t think the dinghy’s occupants noticed her disappearance, or they would be frantically scouring the horizon for her dark head.
Sensing Mariel’s comfort with the currents she swam, Trystan returned to swimming toward his ship with a pain in his heart. He despised leaving her.
He yanked his thoughts back to what must be done. If the Destiny could sail closer to shore, he could carry a tow rope to the dinghy and the ship could tug them to safety.
Apparently spotting the small craft, the Destiny’s crew was already raising sail and maneuvering into the wind by the time Trystan reached them. He clambered aboard, breathless and grateful for the sun after the chilly waters.
“Passengers,” he said, before his crew could pelt him with questions. “Murdoch.” He pointed toward the harbor and a small vessel raising sail further up the beach.
“Mariel?” Nevan asked in the same cryptic tone while Waylan sh
outed orders.
Trystan scanned the outcropping of rocks that formed the harbor, but saw no sign of his bride. “Safe with her fishy friends,” he replied, knowing he spoke the truth, although their bond spread thin with distance. What the devil was she up to?
As if in answer to Trystan’s question, the man in the crow’s nest shouted, “Whale, to starboard!” as the sails caught the breeze and the ship weighed anchor.
Uttering an expletive, Nevan brought his glass to his eye and with his instinctive knowledge of current and wind, started to call commands to avert disaster—until Trystan smacked his shoulder.
“Mariel,” he reminded him. “We are not leaving until our passengers are on board.”
Nevan shot him a disbelieving look. “You would prefer we run afoul of a sea beast?”
“I think you underestimate my mermaid,” Trystan scolded, hiding a smile as he followed the whale’s direction without need of a glass. “When have you seen a whale so close to shore?”
Nevan turned back to watch, as did everyone not occupied with guiding the ship toward the dinghy—which bobbed directly in the path of the oncoming whale. The ship, too, was on a collision course with the enormous beast. Murdoch’s small sloop could not combat a whale.
“It’s a baby,” Trystan said reassuringly. “It’s all alone and looking for guidance.”
“Whose guidance?” Nevan asked skeptically. “Your mermaid steers whales like horses?”
“I have no idea what Mariel can do,” Trystan acknowledged, “but can you think of any other reason for a whale to swim in these shallow waters?” Pride suffused him as the blunt-nosed mammal gently bumped the back of the dinghy, propelling it forward and almost out of the water. Somehow, Mariel was responsible. He wished he could ask her how.
“I think the lady on the dinghy fainted,” Nevan said worriedly, following the action through his glass.
“Did that keep the chevalier from beating the whale with an oar?” Trystan asked with interest, leaning against the bow and not following the little boat so much as keeping an eye out for black curls.
Mystic Guardian Page 29